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page with car rental information on it. “My source claims to be in possession of proof of the theft.” She looked up.
    “What ‘proof’?”
    “Don’t know,” shrugged Kat. “I only have the claim.”
    Argenziano impatiently waved off someone behind Kat. She turned around and saw a black-clad hostess retreating. The queue of people waiting for tables had grown longer. Their section remained empty. He leaned forward.
    “OK,” he said. “I’m going off the record now. Got it? Let’s say for the sake of argument that it’s possible that South Richmond might have advised the Chippewas that it could be mutually advantageous to regularly set aside a rough percentage of cash receipts prior to their being entered on the top line.”
    “OK,” said Kat. She felt a growing excitement.
    “If something like this were to happen, it would be, ah, customary for this to be cash that South Richmond would take physical possession of. It would be good business.”
    “How so?”
    “It just would be.” Argenziano paused slightly between each word, for emphasis.
    “Is it legal?”
    “Is it legal,” said Argenziano, with a laugh. “Kat, this is a legitimate business. This is what I’ve been saying all along. There are official documents on file with official government agencies that prove this. My point here is that in the hypothetical situation we’re discussing, a single individual would have to actually carry the money from point A to point B. Physically, like, in a briefcase.”
    “And that individual is Saltino.”
    “Oh, it has to be Saltino, if you are dead set on writing a story about someone strolling out of my casino with a brown paper bag full of U.S. currency. This is not going to be depicted as part of a pattern of activity that could be construed as consistent with that of a corrupt organization. OK? One big weekend, one man’s temptation boiling over. That’s the frame this story has to fit inside of, if you want any help from me at all.”
    “What makes you think I need your help?”
    “Here you are. Who’s your source?”
    “That’s confidential.”
    “I’m going to bet that it’s not someone who can speak, how do I put it, authoritatively on these matters.” He removed the napkin from his lap and tossed it over the steak. It immediately absorbed some of the bloody fluid pooling on the plate. He stood. “You’ll need some cooperation on this end.” She reached into her purse and pulled out one of her cards and handed it to him.
    “Call me if you want to cooperate,” she said.
    He stuck the card in his breast pocket without looking at it. “Enjoy the rest of your lunch.”

7
    I WOULD know this dude Salteau was bullshit even if I didn’t remember him from Manitou Sands. He was not like any damn Indian I ever heard of. He didn’t talk right look right or walk right. He messed up these stories I’ve heard a thousand times. I don’t mean he changed them around I mean he wasn’t thinking in the right direction. And he didn’t know anybody at all. Who ever heard of an Indian not knowing anybody? There’s always some cousin around or something.”
    From the e-mail Becky Chasse had sent her on Tuesday. A name from so far out of the past that the idea of the woman living, continuing on outside of Kat’s fixed concept of her, thrilled and unsettled her. She’d brought it to Nables to ask if she could take a look.
    “Who’s this Becky Chasse? Why’s she writing to you?”
    “She probably knows that none of those little local papers can handle a story like that. They probably wouldn’t touch it if they could.”
    “No but why’s she writing you ?”
    She’d told Nables that she and Becky had gone to the U of M together. He hadn’t seemed to realize that nobody who went to Ann Arbor would go back to a place like Nebising, or go to work in the cage at Manitou Sands for that matter. Michiganders mostly got out of Michigan, if they got the chance. Nables had very limited ideas about